“Yeah, we better stop, Harper, but not because of my arm.”
I know what he means. My father’s overprotective and I haven’t had a lot of opportunities to hook up with guys, but I’m not completely clueless. This would be a bad time and place to take a serious step together. Emotionally and physically. And I want him so badly in both of those ways. But not in the guest room with my grandmother and his father right down stairs. Still . . .
He smiles and kisses me lightly on the lips.
I smile back and tell him, “Tune in next time.”
“Yes, as soon as possible. Hey, I’m starving. Is there anything to eat down in the kitchen?”
“Tons. Grams has been cooking up a storm.”
Shane swings his legs over the edge of the bed, rests his elbows on his knees, and holds his head in his hands for a second. He’s wearing a plain white T-shirt and a pair of baggy old gym shorts that say Rocky Hill on one side across the bottom. His clothes are wrinkled and his hair’s sticking up all over the place, but it’s a good look on him.
“Are you okay?” I reach out and gently grab the hand that’s attached to his uninjured arm.
Groaning, he looks up at me. “As okay as I’ll ever be. Considering.”
Then he stands, and we head downstairs together to find some food.
“After we eat, maybe we can play another cutthroat game of Scrabble,” he suggests.
“Sure. I love Scrabble. And this time I’m gonna win. I’ve never had a one-handed back rub before.”
“I’m better with one hand than most people are with two.”
“Yeah, I bet.”
Shane slept through my whole ordeal and knows nothing about it. So after we sit down at the table, I fill him in on what happened.
“Holy shit, Harper! He almost got you!”
“Language, young man!” Grams scolds Shane, and I giggle because she watches Jerry Springer almost every day. On his show, so much of the dialogue is swearing they bleep it out, and you have no clue what anyone’s saying half the time.
“Yeah, watch it, Shane. You’ve offended my grandmother. She’s used to all the swear words being bleeped out on Springer.”
“Enough from you, young lady.” She bends down to squeeze me in her arms and cover my head with kisses for what seems like the hundredth time today.
“Grams, I can’t breathe. Take it easy. What have you been doing, lifting weights?”
“Nah. We do a lot of upper bodywork in my water aerobics class, down at the Y. I go at least three times a week.”
Looking at me with a forkful of steaming mashed potatoes halfway to his mouth, Shane still seems a little groggy and dreamy faced. “Harper, tell me exactly what happened today.” His words are a little slurred so the word “exactly” sounds more like “eggshackly.”
I’m kinda tired and don’t feel like reliving the attack step-by-step, so I give him a shortened version. “Don’t worry. He didn’t even come close to doing any serious damage. I stomped on his foot and kicked his face so hard that he stumbled away holding onto his jaw. He’ll be easy to spot now. The whole left side of his face is probably one huge, swollen, dark purple bruise.”
“If he’s stupid enough to appear in public.” Shane grabs my right hand and holds it tight, making it difficult for me to eat my pie.
“Is that chocolate cream pie?” Dad walks in, pulls out a chair, and sits down with us.
“The pie’s for after you eat a decent meal, Tommy.” Grams is the only one who ever calls him “Tommy.” She loads up a plate with baked stuffed chicken, mashed potatoes, gravy, and broccoli, and then plunks it in front of him. Grabbing her cup of tea and a piece of pie, she sits down in the fourth chair.
“Is that all you’re having? A little piece of pie? Aren’t you going to eat any dinner, Grams?” I worry about her sometimes because she’s pretty old.
“Don’t fret about me, Sweetie. I’ve been sampling everything as it comes off the stove and out of the oven.” She smiles and sips her tea.
My father weighs in. “The person we need to worry about is you, Harper. Have you thought about what happened today?”
“How can I not think about it, Dad?”
“Do you realize he wasn’t trying to kill you? At least not yet.”
“What do you mean?” Shane leans forward in his chair.
“He never even tried to stab Harper, but he attacked you with a knife, Shane. If you hadn’t moved quickly, he might’ve killed you. We think he was aiming for a direct hit between two ribs and straight into the heart.”
I want to wrap Shane up in my arms and never let go, but I don’t want to hurt him, plus everyone’s watching us, so I resist the urge and settle for squeezing his hand. Even with two cops guarding him, the killer still managed to stab Shane and then escape on foot. He’s smart, fast, and desperate enough to assault someone in broad daylight. What if he had succeeded? Shane would be dead right now instead of sitting next to me, eating pie.
“So his attack on Harper was different,” Shane says.
“Yes. He didn’t try to stab her. He didn’t hurt her at all, no signature crack over the head to knock her unconscious. Nothing. Instead he covered her face with a cloth soaked in chloroform. He’s never used chemicals to subdue someone before. It’s something new. He usually knocks them over the head, but it seems like this time he didn’t want to injure his victim.”
“What do you think he was trying to do?”
“Render her unconscious, carry her through the woods, and take off. There’s evidence that his car was parked on the other side of the town forest that borders the high-school playing fields. The crime-scene techs found some tire tracks in the dirt by the side of the road.”
Shane puts down his fork. “After he gets her into the car, then what?”
“We think he wants to hide her away somewhere. At least for a while.”
My father’s words hit me like the Titanic hit the iceberg. But instead of all that saltwater rushing onto the deck, it rushes out of my eyes. Chills tingle up and down my arms. All I can think about is being held hostage by that monster. I let go of Shane’s hand, shove my chair away from the table, and jump up.
“I’m cold. I need a sweatshirt,” I yell back down the stairs on my way up.
In my room, I fling open one drawer after another, grabbing fistfuls of clothes and throwing them onto the floor. I’m looking for my softest, oldest sweatshirt. It’s in here somewhere. Finally, when the heap of underwear, pajamas, and T-shirts is past two feet high, I find it, deep in the back of the bottom drawer: the old Rocky Hill sweatshirt my mother used to wear. It belonged to Dad originally, but she liked it.
In one of my favorite pictures of her, she’s standing in our kitchen, in front of the stove, smiling at the camera, wearing the sweatshirt. She has a spatula in one hand, and she’s cooking eggs in a frying pan. The huge sweatshirt hangs down to her knees, but it isn’t loose enough to hide the bump that would soon become me.
I used to sleep in it every night when I was younger. But now I almost never wear it because I want it to last forever and it’s already threadbare. At this very moment, though, I don’t care. I pull the cozy garment over my head and breathe in its smell before I yank it down and push my arms through the sleeves. I’m taller than she was. Still, the sweatshirt covers the tops of my thighs. Feeling warmer and braver with it on, I turn toward the doorway, but my father’s blocking it. He walks over and sits down on the bed. I plunk down beside him.
“Harper, honey, what can I do to help?”
Struggling to find the words, I try to tell him what’s eating away at me. “I know more about the killer than I know about my mother. We only talk about the way she died. We never talk about her.”
Dad brushes one big hand down the sleeve of the sweatshirt and uses his other hand to push my hair away from my face.
“You look so much like her. Except her eyes were blue. You have my eyes.” A tear wends its way down one of his cheeks and then drips
off the end of his chin.
Silently, I wait for him to continue. We’ve always been completely focused on finding her killer. I’ve tried to be like Dad: strong, focused and disciplined. Neither of us ever shows our emotions because we’ve trained ourselves not to feel them. This isn’t a good time for us to fall apart, but it’s too late now. The tears are flowing down Dad’s face unchecked.
“We were so happy when you were born.” A sob shudders through his massive chest and out into the room. I’ve never heard such a sad sound before. I put one hand on his shoulder and pass him the tissue box from my bedside table with the other. He pulls out a fistful, dabs at his cheeks, then separates one from the bunch and blows his nose.
“She was very protective of you. If we wanted to go out to dinner or a movie or something, she wouldn’t let anyone but Grams babysit. That’s why your grandmother moved to Eastfield. So she could be near us and help take care of you.”
I smile at him, but at the same time, tears start to leak out my eyes. “What else, Dad?”
“You were the smartest, prettiest baby I’ve ever seen, and your mother and I adored you. I still do.” Another sob escapes.
He hugs me briefly and rests his chin on the top of my head. “I love you, Harper, one hundred percent. Forever.”
“What about before I came along? What kind of a person was she? Not just as your wife and my mother. What was she really like?”
“We were in college when we met. I was a senior at Rocky Hill, and she was a couple of years behind me at Bridgewater State. Our roommates were brother and sister. They introduced us to each other.”
“What classes did she like best?” I know she was a teacher, but I don’t know any of the details. I can’t believe I’ve never asked until now.
“Education and art. After your mother graduated, she got a job teaching kindergarten right away. She loved little kids. She was always so sweet and kind. I really admired her for that. I like little kids. I’d die to protect one. To me, though, they’re cute and funny but bothersome. They always need their noses wiped or their shoes tied. They ask too many annoying questions. The ‘what ifs’ are the worst. She never thought so. Everything they did was beautiful and pure and fascinating to her.”
“Tell me more.”
“I used to drop her off in the morning and then pick her up at work sometimes, in the late afternoon, after school was over and the kids had gone home. She could’ve driven herself, but we liked having the time together.
“One day I came early and peeked into her classroom through the window in the door. She was sitting in one of those tiny chairs, with her knees up under her chin, talking to a little boy who was crying. She smiled at him, dried his eyes, and then held the tissue to his nose so he could blow it. The kid stopped crying and smiled back at her.” He stifles a sob and continues. “She had a smile that could stop anyone’s tears.”
I reach one arm around his big shoulders. “What else?”
“She didn’t have tons of friends, just a few close ones: her roommate from college and some girls from the volunteer group she belonged to. They tutored children in an after-school program a couple of times a week. She taught kindergarten all day and then left to go work with kids at a homeless shelter after school. That’s the kind of woman your mother was. She felt more comfortable around children than she did around adults, so she spent as much time as possible with them.”
“She must’ve done other stuff besides teaching: you know, fun stuff, not work. She was human, right? Not a saint.”
“She was a talented artist, but she didn’t think so. I saved some of her work if you want to see it. Everything’s packed away up in Grams’s attic.”
“I’d like that.”
“She’d be embarrassed because she didn’t think she was any good. But I thought she had talent. It makes me too sad to look at her pictures, though. I’m so sorry, Harper. I’ve always felt like I had to hold myself together because of you. I knew if I let myself think about her, I’d fall apart. I wouldn’t be able to function.”
“It’s okay, Dad. You’ve done a good job. I’m happy and successful and strong. Strong enough now to know more about her. She was my mother.”
“You’re right, honey. We should have had this talk a long time ago.”
“We should have had lots of talks like this.”
“We will from now on. I promise.”
Then he looks at the stack of books piled high on my nightstand, points, and chuckles.
“What?”
“Your mother wasn’t much of a reader. Not like you and me. But she had a favorite book she read over and over again. To Kill a Mocking Bird. We named you after the author, Harper Lee.”
“I remember that book. It was great! We had to read it for English class a couple of years ago. I figured I might be named after the author or maybe after Harpers Ferry. I know you love Civil War history stuff. The abolitionist movement and all that.”
He laughs. “No, you’re not named after the abolitionists’ raid on Harpers Ferry. You’re named after Harper Lee. Rosemary wanted to name you Scout, after the main character, but I said, ‘No way.’ So we compromised and named you Harper. It’s kind of an unusual name, but you’ve never said anything one way or the other. Do you like it?”
“I’ve never thought about it until now. It’s just always been my name. But I loved that book. I’m going to read it again, starting tonight. Do we have a copy?”
“Yes. I have your mother’s old paperback tucked away in the back of my sock drawer. I’ll leave it on your nightstand.”
“Is there anything else you haven’t told me?”
“Nothing important. Not like the thing about the book and your name.”
“It doesn’t have to be important. I just want to know.”
His big, strong shoulders heave. When he begins, his voice cracks a little. “She liked to do puzzles. We always had a jigsaw puzzle with at least a thousand pieces spread out over the dining-room table. First she’d put together the border. Then she’d sort the pieces into piles of the same color.”
“Did she have a favorite puzzle?”
“She had about ten different puzzles and she kind of rotated them, but the one she liked best was a photograph of a beautiful grassy hill, near a pond, with a forest in the background. She liked landscapes. She’d keep the cover propped up near the edge of the table so she could look at the picture every time she got stuck.”
“How long did it take her to finish one?”
“Days, sometimes weeks, depending on how busy she was. We usually ate in the kitchen, even if we had people over for dinner, because the puzzle couldn’t be disturbed. Every night she’d make a cup of tea, put on some classical music, and then sit down and work on the jigsaw before she went up to bed. When she finished one, she’d put it back in the box and start another.”
“Where are the puzzles, Dad?”
“I gave them away to a senior citizens’ center. I don’t really like to do puzzles, and you never showed any interest, so I got rid of them.”
Actually, I think puzzles are boring. Even when I was younger, I never liked them. The only thing I found more boring was coloring. I guess I was kind of a weird little kid.
The cuffs on the long sleeves of the sweatshirt are hanging down over my hands, and I lift one up and use it to wipe my father’s wet face. But the tears keep streaming down.
“I asked her about the puzzles once. I couldn’t see the big attraction. Never sat down to help her with one. She might have liked that. I’ll never know.”
It’s painful to see my dad like this, but I persist because I need to. “Don’t worry, Dad, I probably wouldn’t have helped her with the puzzles, either. I’ve always found jigsaws kinda boring.”
“I’m embarrassed because I was such a snob about those puzzles. You know. Big computer expert. Successful entrepreneur. I respected and admired your mother wholeheartedly, everything about her, except maybe those puzzles. Until one day she expl
ained.”
“What did she say?”
“She said she wished life could be like a jigsaw puzzle: a beautiful scene, with perfect lighting, but cut very precisely into pieces, and you had to figure out how they fit together. After it was all put together, if you looked closely enough, you could see where each piece joined another. Then you could back up and see the whole picture again. She wanted life to be like that for the kids she taught. She wanted to show them how the pieces fit together to form a beautiful whole. But life isn’t like that. Sometimes adults hurt children, deliberately and cruelly, either through bad intentions or neglecting their responsibility to nurture and protect. She saw this a lot because of her work.”
“But with the puzzles everything fit together perfectly, like it should. They made her problems go away for a little while.”
“I was a fool to ever think one condescending thought about those puzzles. I miss her so much.” He grabs some more tissues and presses them against his eyes.
“I know you do, Dad.” I don’t miss her. I can’t remember her.
“When I think about the things that happened to me before I met her, it seems like it all happened to someone else.”
I want to know what that feels like, no matter how much it hurts. I hate having an empty place in my heart where the love for my mother should be. So even though my father’s pain is awful to watch, I persevere.
“She’s not real to me. She’s still a saint. An angel. She’s not human.” I prod at him, and he responds with still more tears.
“She was very real and very human.”
“Was she perfect, though? Tell me something bad about her. Make her human for me. Did you two ever fight?”
“Yes.” He smiles, showing me a glimpse of white teeth, but his eyes stay sad. “She was a terrible hypochondriac. If she caught a cold, she was sure it would turn into pneumonia. If she had a rash, she was afraid it would spread all over her whole body. I didn’t really care at first. She was just a little quirky that way.”
Hidden in the Dark (Harper Flagg Book 1) Page 14